Paint This Sunset Red
by shira syndrome
Summary: Gaara and Kankurou centric. What they were, and what they have become. [vague shounen ai or just oodles of brotherly love?]


Disclaimer: Naruto belongs to Masashi Kishimoto and blah blah blah.

a/n: As much as I would enjoy claiming I'm an incredibly talented writer to be fawned over and worshipped, this was really just me playing with angst and pretty similes, so it's rather choppy and mawkish in some – okay, most – parts. But I _am_ loving on the sand sibs, so maybe that makes up for it…?

Rated K+ for the one-time use of the word fuck (all right, used twice). Gotta be mindful of the profanity for the youngsters, now don't I?

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**Paint This Sunset Red**

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In the twisted tangle of his childhood, Gaara remembers watching the sun kiss the horizon and being reminded of spilled blood. The ball of fire would touch the endless stretch of sand and turn it into a desert of gore, making something dark inside him shift and squirm restlessly, tattooing the color crimson to the backs of his eyes.

Now, the sun sets on the village he has sworn to protect, and the sands cradle the manor he now resides in as Kazekage.

For one of the first times in an eternity he watches dusk approach from the familiar sandstone balcony and thinks not of blood. He does not feel the relentless caress of Shukaku clawing at his insides, nor does he stare eagerly, wide-eyed, at an ocean of red death; rather, he squints at dying rays of the sun touching sand and thinks of another cool desert night.

It's quiet in the house of his father, the previous Kazekage. Once upon a time a family had lived here, a mother and father, their two wayward children, the nameless, faceless servants, retainers, advisors of Sunagakure. There had always been cracks within the family; sharp edges and rough splinters, fissures and gaps – not happiness, but familiarity and resilience. Not happy, but happy enough. That was, until his father had defied nature to preserve the quality of their village. Then the cracks and quiet harmony quickly crumpled into rifts and mad desolation.

The only people who now remain constant in the house of his father are himself and his brother and sister; ashes of the mother and father of the past have been blown to the wind, along with the many victims of Gaara's rickety childhood. He remembers this place from the cold depth of infancy, this place where lunacy and grief strangled it from the inside out, and so he tries hard to keep the house liveable, to wash sorrow from the walls, and sweep pain from the corners. To toss the darkness to the wind like everything else.

It's difficult to recall when the darkness truly began to smother him. He knows there was never really a beginning; it was always there, always lingering, from the time his mother's belly began to grow round for the third and final time. Following back the string of memory, he can only remember when he first recognized it – _saw_ it – like a stray butterfly fluttering past his face.

Gaara is three, and blissfully ignorant.

Kankurou is five, and so choked with heartache he can hardly breathe.

This Gaara, with chubby hands and an unmarred forehead, is sitting all alone in the desert. The sun is just to about to set, and he restlessly slips his fingers through handfuls of sand. In a few years, he will come out to this same spot and take these handfuls of sand and make a gourd to carry his malice and loneliness, but that is not part of this memory. In this place and time he has simply wandered from the house in boredom, childishly irritated at being devoid of attention.

In fact, Gaara has wandered so far he is nothing but a small speck to his brother Kankurou, who is watching from back at the manor, the only one to have noticed him missing. For Kankurou, in a few years the twisted look on his face when he thinks of his baby brother will be masked by ritual paint; purple, the color of royalty. Already he is starting to be appraised by the company of Sand puppeteers, and Temari, growing a healthy sense of arrogance at the age of six, is away to begin her own training. Gaara, on the other hand, still spends his time around the manor and grounds, and Kankurou is grateful for it. Too young to accompany their father on trips, it's Kankurou – the eldest son (but in the eyes of his father, the more expendable of the two) – who is allowed to go with him.

Although, later on when Gaara begins to demonstrate his refusal to travel with their father by coloring the walls with servants' blood, Kankurou will wish things could only remain that simple; just a game of which son was the oldest, therefore doted on more.

The few years after Gaara's birth were built of grey glass. If one walked too hard – if one _existed_ too hard – the glass would shatter underfoot and send the damned into an abyss where there was surely no return.

Even at his age, Kankurou is already growing into a man in all the wrong ways. He knows rage, and hate, and sorrow. He recognizes the danger that is his little brother, and can walk on eggshells around him as well as any adult in his house. He has barely spent time in the same room as Gaara, but has learned that if he angers him, it will cost him his life – a basic lesson not unlike learning not to wander off, or play outside past dark.

But… last night he dreamed so vividly of his mother he could not hold in the aching tears as the grief descended on him upon waking; that _no_, he will never see her again, that _yes_, she screamed out her last breath as Gaara breathed his first.

And so he watches from the manor, stares at the distant shape of his baby brother until the world pulses red in tune with his fury – already so familiar.

Sitting in the cool desert sand, Gaara is unsuspecting of Kankurou's murderous intent. He has not yet experienced the raw burn of fury himself, only the occasional cranky tantrum. Plays on his life are still foreign. To a child of three, whether a demon or an angel, it is still the little things that encompass his attention, like the button eyes of his teddy bears, or the strong line of his father's shoulders. The coming twilight holds his amusement. Because of this, he doesn't sense his brother escape the confines of their home and dart across the sands toward him, and even when he eventually looks over his shoulder to witness the panting, shaking boy coming to a stop before him, he does nothing.

Up close, Gaara doesn't recognize the face he has seen only from a distance, but the resemblance of their father is unmistakable. This alien child is his brother of flesh and blood, and the first time they truly see each other face to face begins with Kankurou lunging toward him, a scream of rage tearing from his throat.

The harsh sound elicits a small shiver of discomfort to creep down Gaara's back.

He does not yet realize the danger, but that is the beauty of what he is: his defence will always protect him from harm, regardless. And Kankurou has chosen to attack him on a playing field that his younger brother will one day control with ruthless ease. Still, these circumstances apply only to what they will become, not what they are: children. Kankurou is still slow and awkward on the uneven footing. Gaara is still blissfully ignorant.

Their father is not yet dust to the wind, and still holds a thread of control.

He is at the scene before his eldest boy stumbles within range of Gaara's involuntary defence, an instant death.

The rough arm of the Kazekage wrenches Kankurou backwards, halting his suicidal charge, but it does not stop his violent screaming. He screams and screams while his father yanks him back with a snarl and a dark glance at Gaara. He screams until the tears streaming down his face fall into his mouth. He screams until his throat is bloody. He screams until Gaara trembles and covers his ears with his hands.

This is the first and only time Gaara is frightened of his brother. Kankurou's face is not obscured with paint, his body not concealed by the weight of his puppets or the black clothes he will come to favour. Everything he is and everything he will come to hide reveals itself in hoarse, roaring screams of agony. This will be the only time for many, many years that Gaara will see what truly lies behind Kankurou's eyes. His fury sparks like an errant firecracker, brilliant and burning and tormented, and maybe, just maybe, tainted with his own kind of madness.

Sand whispers and hisses at Gaara's feet like a snake ready to strike.

The wild moment in time is lost, and Kankurou knows it. He left the house without permission, and will no doubt be reprimanded; what makes it worse is that he went for Gaara's life, the precious, irreplaceable prize of the Hidden Village of Sand, and will certainly be punished severely for it. In fact, when he is finally allowed to leave his father's study, bruised and sniffling softly, _premeditated_ is the word he will have been taught.

The fire in Kankurou's eyes begins to cool into molten exhaustion, drains from his stiff body. The aftermath leaves him trembling like a leaf caught in a breeze, and he wavers on his feet. Their father curses him, calls him a fool, and drags him home again without a backward glance. His youngest is out of danger and therefore out of mind.

Night falls, and after a while Gaara follows the footprints.

He is three, and no longer so ignorant.

The years passed as such, with Kankurou walking the path of grey glass and Gaara weaving it and thinner and thinner. Then came the final deliverance, where all three children of the sand could fall together, hand in hand, or fly.

They're not yet strong enough to ascend completely out of reach of shadow, but they try; together, they try. The nightmares are no longer so vivid, the sunsets not so bloody. The past leaves scars, but at least forgiveness closes the wounds.

Gaara wanders downstairs, following sounds of muffled curses and the groan of metal that can only be his brother. In the entrance hall, Kankurou has made himself at home with a graveyard of mechanical parts spread out around him. His puppet companions are being taken apart and repaired, and by the vehemence of his curses, Gaara deduces things are not running smoothly. He does not envy his brother's partners-in-arms when Kankurou takes a petty swipe at Karasu's head with a tool, leaving a dent.

Back hunched and face barren of paint, Kankurou notices his little brother watching him from the foot of the stairs. He has not yet gotten the hang of reading the small subtleties of Gaara's expressions, and so takes his poker-faced amusement for annoyance. He points a wrench at him and says, "This is usually a fast job. I'm just tired tonight, okay?" Caught taking out his frustration on inanimate objects, it comes out more defensive that he would have liked. For a split second something like a flash of mockery flits across Gaara's blank expression, but it's gone so fast Kankurou is not sure if he imagined it or not.

At fifteen, a year after the bloody battle in Konoha, Kankurou has gone from a genin to a Chuunin to the preparation to becoming a Jounin. He wakes up before dawn to train, and comes home well after dark with muscles imitating wet noodles. For the first few months he was sure it was a self-imposed hell.

At thirteen, Gaara has gone from a genin to a Kage. Kankurou can't imagine what that is like. But he knows now, better than ever, that his baby brother is strong. And he knows as strong as he is Gaara could not do what he does without his family – _their_ family. Because together they've all known rage, and hate, and sorrow, and from the ruins they now nurture trust and respect, and blood ties that can't be so easily broken as in the past.

"You're blocking the entrance."

If Kankurou could see his reflection he would realize he has a large smear of grease staining a fair portion of his forehead black, but he doesn't, and Gaara is not one to speak unnecessarily, and so his brother is free to be silently amused at his expense.

"Yeah, so what? Temari isn't due back for four more days. Unless you're suddenly on a cleaning spree?"

Gaara doesn't answer. Typically. He talks more now than he ever has in his life, but he is still the master of abruptly ending conversations because he no longer feels like responding. Temari keeps saying it's because Gaara is more thoughtful that way. When Kankurou is silent, she says it's because he's thick. Kankurou rolls his eyes skyward at the thought and smoothes hair back with the back of his wrist.

He stops when Gaara gives him a particularly dry look and starts to raise his hand. Kankurou entertains the thought of Gaara suddenly and unexpectedly flipping him the bird – which would be an action of apocalyptic proportions – but all he does is tap the spot on his forehead where his tattoo is. Kankurou blinks, wondering if his brother is trying to invent a new form of sign language or something; Temari seems to be the only one that can interpret Gaara's behaviour, and right now he wishes she were here – if only to tell him that Gaara really _is_ telling him to fuck off in that wordless way of his.

Finally, he settles for eyeing his younger brother out of the corner of his eye, quickly trying to think up a response that isn't stupid, or that, by chance, manages to piss him off.

Unblinking, Gaara stares back, unwilling to translate.

His eyes settle on the tattoo. He blinks slowly. His brain grasps its meaning, and forms a suitable response in return. "Uh… well, I love you too…?"

If possible, Gaara's face becomes even more devoid of expression, and he shakes his head slowly as though he's talking to an idiot. He walks away. When he's halfway into the other room, he says one word.

"Grease."

Now Kankurou is positive Gaara is trying to invent a new sort of language. Either that or staring at the sun for so long short-circuited his brain.

"What?"

"Idiot. You have grease on your forehead. And you wiped it into your hair."

"Oh." Damn, how embarrassing. Kankurou flounders for something else. "So… nice sunset?"

Gaara looks back over his shoulder. "… Yes." He looks past his brother to the mess around him, which resembles a messy child with his toys. He shakes his head, not unkindly. "Idiot." His lips twist in what Gaara exhibits as a microscopic smile.

That much Kankurou can understand.

He smiles back.


End file.
